


It Is Holmes Who Starts It

by echoindarkness



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Fluff, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoindarkness/pseuds/echoindarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The rain lashes constantly at the windows of 221B. The occasional cab clatters down the cobbled street, but there is almost no foot traffic, and Holmes has instructed Mrs Hudson to refuse any clients. They have locked the doors against the world.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is Holmes Who Starts It

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt at [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sherlockkink/profile)[**sherlockkink**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sherlockkink/) over [here](http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/1815.html?thread=7595287#t8196375) that asked for porn with weather!kink.

  
The rain lashes constantly at the windows of 221B. The occasional cab clatters down the cobbled street, but there is almost no foot traffic, and Holmes has instructed Mrs Hudson to refuse any clients. They have locked the doors against the world.

They are stretched out on the bear skin rug; Watson with his back against the settee warming his bad leg, Holmes with his head in Watson’s lap. Watson runs a hand through Holmes’ hair while he stares into the fire, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

It is Holmes who starts it. It is almost always Holmes who starts it, after all. Watson is ever at his service, and Holmes always takes advantage of the doctor’s amiable nature, though he does it kindly.

He moves, just gently, against Watson’s lap; nuzzling cat-like against the fine wool of the doctor’s trousers. Watson’s fingers tighten and Holmes chuckles softly against his thigh, the sound muffled by wool and flesh.

“Holmes.” The doctor’s voice is a whisper and is nearly lost in the sound of the rainstorm.

Holmes does not reply. He is too busy smirking and undoing the laces of Watson’s trousers and untucking his shirt. He runs a finely boned white hand along the soft cotton of Watson’s undershirt, tracing a finger up the contours of the doctor’s chest while he draws the other along the inside of his leg. He moves gracefully, bringing his hands up to unbutton Watson’s shirt and slide his braces off, a slight smile playing along his lips. He rolls his torso so he is looking straight up, breaking his contact with Watson's hands. Watson grins and leans down to kiss him, slow and warm and steady. There is a rhythm to their movements, as comforting and familiar as the Persian slipper and the sound of the rain.

Watson breaks the kiss and draws Holmes up into his lap; holding him for a moment to lean his forehead on Holmes’ back and enjoy the feel of his dressing gown against his skin. He thinks that it would be nice just to stay like this forever. Then Holmes moves to stand, squeezing Watson's knee in warning. He faces the fire without looking back to see if Watson is watching - because he knows that Watson is - and begins to slowly remove his clothing.

It is a pleasant torture, and Watson bears it admirably. Holmes’ dressing gown slides to the floor onto the rug and his braces slide down his shoulders. He wears neither collar nor cuffs, and Watson swallows hard as the white cotton shirt drops next to the dressing gown. Holmes is all planes of porcelain skin and hard wiry muscle, and no matter how many times Watson sees it he never grows weary of the sight.

Holmes is slipping out of his trousers now, agonizingly slowly, and Watson knows he is doing it on purpose.

“Holmes.” he says again, but this time it is a groan instead of a whisper.

Holmes turns with characteristic grace and efficiency of movement and is kneeling in front of Watson in an instant, sliding one hand into his trousers and the other up along his chest again. Holmes' mouth is on his neck, nipping the skin with tiny biting kisses that send the blood rushing to his cock as Holmes' clever fingers stroke along in featherlight caresses.

He leans his head back onto the settee and tries to even out his breathing. Holmes’ skin is flushed a delicate pink in the heat of the fire, and Watson thinks wildly that it reminds him of summer roses, but dismisses the thought as foolish. Roses are not carved of marble or cast in porcelain.

“I find your garments are most inconvenient my dear Watson.” Holmes says, tugging him up so that he can remove the rest of the doctor's clothing. Watson tilts forward, letting Holmes lean up to slip the shirt from his shoulders and pull his undershirt over his head. With so much naked skin stretched in front of him, Watson cannot resist planting several hasty kisses along his friend's chest. He is rewarded with a shiver that ripples the muscles under all of that rose stained skin and a tiny moan that goes straight to his core. Casting the garment aside, Holmes drops down to his knees again with a fond expression on his face.

“Taking liberties are you Doctor?” Holmes purrs and strokes a finger along Watson’s cheek.

“Of course not, my dear fellow.” Watson has an easy smile, this is a game they always play, a fight for dominance that isn’t really a fight at all.

“Quite so.” Holmes’ fingers are working at cloth of Watson’s trousers now, and he says it absently, all of his concentration on the skin he is revealing.

Watson’s pulses are thrumming, slight shivers running to his core and tingling in his toes. He lifts his hips so Holmes can pull his trousers down, finally. He sighs, letting out a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding. Holmes gives him an impish look.

“Well Watson, what say you? Over the arm of the settee? Over the ottoman?” Holmes brushes his fingers lightly against Watson’s cock, which twitches in interest. He works slowly, working over favorite spots and watching the color rise in Watson’s cheeks. Holmes loves to watch Watson’s face while he works, whether he is making brilliant deductions or performing careful chemical experiments. When they are alone it is no different, except that Holmes’ attention is on Watson so completely that it is as if he is the most interesting mystery the detective has ever tried to unravel. Watson’s soul is simple, he loves without complication and with his entire heart, and perhaps that is what puzzles Holmes most of all.

Watson reaches out and pulls Holmes close to kiss him, gasping into Holmes’ mouth when their cocks brush together. He moans as the detective rolls his hips, pressing him back into the side of the settee, his hands gripping Watson’s shoulders.

“Watson, you have not answered my question.” The firelight glints in Holmes’ steely eyes, and Watson is flushed and breathless, and the reply comes out as a whisper.

“On the settee, but I--”

“Ah.” Holmes’ face quirks into a smile as he rolls his hips again and claims Watson’s mouth, running his tongue along the doctor’s lower lip so that he shudders. John Watson has an extraordinarily sensitive mouth, and Holmes does like to exploit any advantage. He lets his hands stray down to Watson's thighs, his fingers working into the flesh of the doctor's broken leg, the one that always troubles him in weather like this. The muscles are trembling and Holmes works deftly, easing the tension away from old wound. He does not miss the opportunity to bestow gentle kisses elsewhere on Watson's person as he works. Watson's hands are braced against the carpet, fingers digging into the pile and making small furrows in the wool.

"Now, my dear boy, if you would be so kind." Holmes says when he breaks away, giving Watson a little push. Watson slides himself up onto the settee and Holmes nestles himself between the doctor's legs, laying one cheek against the wounded thigh and closing his eyes.

"Holmes?" Watson has to fight to make the word come, the heat of the fire and the movement of Holmes' fingers have put him nearly out of his senses. He cups Holmes' other cheek and draws a thumb along his jaw, feeling smooth skin and just a hint of stubble. Holmes leans into the touch for a moment before he opens his eyes and smiles.  
Then he ducks out of sight without warning, the speed of the movement startling Watson until Holmes' black head appears between his knees again, a small bottle in his hands. Something about this makes Watson laugh because it is so Holmes, and he does not stop laughing until Holmes takes his cock deep into his throat, which is the second best way to silence him, after all.

Watson bucks up at the contact, his breath coming fast and hard. Holmes' hands are gripping his hips as he sucks, his cheeks hollowing around Watson's cock. He drags his tongue along the base before he lets go, holding Watson's hips down firmly. Watson moans once, and then Holmes is kneeling over him on the settee, proffering the bottle to him with one hand and bracing himself against the arched back of the furniture with the other.

Watson kisses him briefly and takes the bottle, uncorking it to coat his fingers and himself. The slick feel of his own fingers is almost too much and he gives himself only the barest attention, aware that Holmes is watching him and waiting for him to get on with it. So he does.

He wraps one arm around Holmes' waist and kisses him again, deeply this time, a question unspoken between them. Holmes leans his forehead down to touch Watson's in answer and they stay like that for just a moment before Watson moves, tracing down between Holmes' cheeks and entering him. Holmes whimpers when the finger breaches, but he is impatient, his normally ironclad self control waining. Watson adds another finger quickly, trying to match the movements Holmes is making with his hips. Holmes is trying not to cry out, they must be vigilant despite locked doors and rainstorms, and his breath hitches every time Watson's fingers hit home.

Watson's eyes never leave Holmes' face, waiting until the right moment, the one he can see coming in the darkening of Holmes eyes and the high spots of color on his cheeks. It's close now -- there. He draws his fingers away and Holmes moves with feline grace, twisting so he faces toward the fireplace, with his feet flat on the ground and his hands braced on either side of Watson's thighs.

Holmes has himself arched up and Watson thinks irrelevantly that it is a good thing Holmes is so tall. He has both hands wrapped around Holmes' backside, guiding Holmes' down on to his cock, and he gasps when he's enveloped in slick tight heat. It is all Watson can do to move slowly, thrusting up to meet Holmes as he comes down, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Watson." Holmes' voice is a hoarse command and Watson knows what he is asking for. He grips Holmes' cock roughly, his other hand coming round to hold the detective steady. The orgasm is coiling at the base of Watson's spine and he knows that he cannot keep the rhythm for too much longer.

It is Holmes' cry of "John!" that sends him over the edge, it turns out, and he comes hard as Holmes' head drops back onto his shoulder. He grips Holmes tightly as the orgasm washes over him, pressing kisses to his shoulders and neck as the tremors shake them both.

When he can breathe and see and think again Holmes has them both laying on the settee under the blanket and has his head on Watson's shoulder. Watson can feel Holmes' heartbeat pulsing beneath his fingers and closes his eyes happily.

The rain is still coming down in icy sheets outside, and Watson can think of no where else on earth he would rather be.  



End file.
